Responding to Hugh Gebutt in re: the theory that some fish are destined to be caught, no matter what, and some are destined not to be caught, no matter what. I don't know of a third option, but after losing so many fish where I thought I did everything right, and catching so many while suffering an acute bout of cranio-rectal insertion, that's about the best I've come up with.

Along those lines, here's another one. On a trip up to Soldotna along with my brother-in-law, we went halibut fishing out of Deep Creek. My brother-in-law hooked into one that the skipper got excited about, which I took as a positive sign. It was like he was trying to pull the plug out of the ocean floor. Then, all of a sudden, his line snaps - somewhere in mid-line. Heavy sigh.

While the skipper is rerigging my brother-in-law, I reel up to check my bait, and as the rotation was explained to us, I went to the back of the line, where my brother-in-law had been and I let back down in the spot he had just vacated.

I hadn't been on the bottom more than a minute, when I hook into something huge. We land this one. It's 200 pounds. After we shoot it, harpoon it, gaff it, lasso, it and pull it in over the rail, we notice that it has another leader and cannon ball weight hanging out of its mouth, besides mine. It was the skipper's rig that my brother-in-law had been using.

So, I guess my philosophical thunderbolt is not so much a statement of the ultimate fate of fish, but the fate of a fish once you hook it. Some are destined to be caught, no matter what, and others are destined to get away, no matter what.

This did not happen to me, but I saw it. During a combat fishery at Hoodsport one year I saw a floattuber and a banker both hook the same fish. Neither knew the other had the same fish. When the banker finally got the fish in he saw what happened. He motor hooked it, the floater had lipped it. That poor fish didn't know whether it was coming or going. Both guys thought they had hooked Mody Dick. That was funny.

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Just because I look big, dumb, and ugly, doesn't mean I am. It means I can stomp you for calling me it!

Combat fishing has its moments. One I distinctly remember occured at this short race on a small creek as it spilled into an estuary--everyone fishes the mouth, and snagging is common, as so many salmon stack up that it's hard to pull your line outta the water without puncturing piscatorial anus. Well, some folks of the linguistic or cognitive minority ignored the guys walking fish down, and suffered tangles constantly because of it. This old man above me was getting a kick out of it--giggling to himself like a drunk schoolgirl. And he tosses his line out there--a huge hook and a tuft of yarn on 50# fireline or spiderwire or some such stuff...he lets out a "YeeHaw!" as a tail-biting king does a 180 and heads downstream. I yanked my line out just in time. the old man didn't move. He just kept his pole over the water and let that fish tear downstream, letting out line, a huge grin on his face. Then he put his thumb down. A few seconds later a collective "Ohhhhhh" passed through the crowd as their gear joined their neighbors' on this guy's line...and then, the old man yanked twice, sharply, dropping a dozen corkies and hooks into the creek. Can't shake his smile--like the schoolyard bully shaking down his peers.

Another common sight at combat zones is the poor fool who's waded out into the stream and then been circled, hog tied, and upended by a hooked fish.

Perhaps the best stories are with, or about a great fishing partner. Mine is my wife. Fishing big chinook in the Queen Charlottes. Hooked a big one. And it began to run. Two and one-half hours later, the fish had been brought to the boat three times - just out of reach - and for good reason - it was foul hooked in the tail. Try that on, in twelve-foot seas and twenty-knot winds, drifting toward Tokyo in a sixteen-foot skiff. Later, the map tells us we were towed two and a quarter nautical miles! We were tired. My new captain (she had never manned an outboard before) was doing great - steering into the swell, reversing and going forward to catch up with this great fish. Finally, (on 12 lb Maxima I might add) the big fish comes along side. I raise the rod as high as I might, and my beautiful other shovels the big stainless steel net deep into the green sea. She scoops and raises the net high! No fish. But I spy my two black hooks dangling in the net! Exhausted (remember 2 1/2 hours!) I drop my $ 300 Loomis rod and $ 120 direct-drive reel, pick up the net, go to the side of the boat, and eye the largest living chinook I have ever seen - 42.5 lb - beside her self, serene, or just exhausted floating like a lost piece of driftwood in this big sea. She (the chinook - but this could also describe my beloved little one) just simply lays there. I scoop her (the fish) out of the white-topped waves - and we, all three, go home spent of even spoken word. I will never forget the great fish, the battle, and lingering spasm on the floor of our little kicker boat. Yes I have had thoughts of her swimming free (or being released) but now just remember the bright, silvery reflection she made while we headed home into the sunset. Both my partner and I laugh about this one on occasion, especially after a great martini sipped in reverence to good fishing, wonderful partners, and the lasting memory of this true great sport.

Here's a SHORT story. I was shortlining from a rock. Steelhead hit in close. Set hook so hard I fell off rock and landed flat on my back. Looked up and saw steelhead was flopping on the beach, also. Total time from bite to beach, about two seconds.

Night fishing and my buddy's rod gets pulled into the river. No back up rod so he watches me fish. 30 minutes later we notice a fish half dead floating on top. We get closer and it has a plug in its' mouth. Buddy grabs it, hand lines in his rod and reel. Fish was clipped so we kept it.

A few years ago I was fishing Blue Creek on the Cowlitz where the stump used to be, it was just turning daylight on about a 30 degree day, the guy standing next to me sets the hook on a fish and his feet went right out from under him while he's about thigh deep, he fell straight back and went totally underwater except for the hand holding the rod, he gets to his feet and lands the fish, he then stripped down to his shorts and hiked out.

I don't approve of this but it was funny in a sadistic sort of way. I used to fish with this guy that on freezing days around Feb. would kill spawned out hatchery steelhead, pour extra water on them, and stick them on frozen windshields in river area parking lots or even back in town. Then would watch flabbergasted guys try to scrape steelhead popcycles off their windshields. ..shtick

Last July I was on my annual fishing trip. I fished from Sat till Wed. I got two nice fish over the weekend. On Monday morning I passed this local fisherman (he wears hunter orange so he's kind of spooky) walking out of my favorite hole and he said there were some fish. So I set my stuff down on top of the rock, forgetting to put my bait rag on. First cast - boom this steelhead starts jumping and goes down river. Usually I fish this spot from underneath where I have better control. I was going to grab my rag because I use it to grab the tail wrist. My line was stuck over a boulder, so I ran down the rocks and the fish was still on. I tried to land it by grabbing my line ( a big no no) and pulling him on the rocks and snap, the first steelhead I lost. I re-rigged and first cast - fish on - snap. I should've trimmed some line off because it was worn from hanging on the rocks.

Two days later I go fish whitewater at this riffle pool where my mentor said he had a bite and he showed me how to fish it by casting upstream, reeling in fast, so it wouldn't get hung up, and letting it drop over the break, count to three, and reel it in. First cast with my sandshrimp and I feel a tug, pulled back, I see this bent dorsal fin come out of the water. My hook came off because I had tied a bad knot with a twist. So I sharpened a hook, retied a nice knot, and put some yarn and another sandshrimp. This time I hooked him,he tried to go downstream and I held him in the small pool. I landed him on some rocks and snap, he slithers back in the water. I jump in and grab him with my rag, throw him in between the rocks and pounce on him. No stick around so I grabbed a rock and smash I missed his head, hit a rock, and broke my hand by my knuckle on my pinky. I finally bonked him. My knuckle is swelling so I put it in the ice cold water and downed a little bottle of Yukon Jack to relieve the pain.

All of these stories are really great! lot's of laughs. I was fishing with my three sons on the Vedder river in Canada this last October for the famous "White Chinook". We were there for three day's and had a great time, caught a lot of fish too. One area we fished was quite narrow from bank to bank and people were getting lines tangled from one side to the other and this guy next to us got tangled with one on the other side so he let's the other guy reel in to untangle the mess. Ok here's the fun part, the guy on the other side, along with a couple of his buddy's blocking the view hooks the guy on our side into a dead chum and pushes into the water. Well this poor guy thinks he has caught a fish and play's it for all he's worth. The dead chum is rolling around in the current and he's yellin' "Fish On-Fish On" and I got to admit it looks like he's fighting a live one but when he finally get's in in, it's this skanky, stiff as a board chum which no one even wants to touch! What a hoot! everyone had a real good laugh, especially the guy's who did it to him. They had been smokin' pot all morning and fell over they were laughing so hard. The guy then turns to me and says "Hey, I think they did that on purpose", which made it more fun!

One from the history books. Summer of '84, Lake Washington. Sockeye season. 604,000 record return count. 6-fish limit. Fish everywhere. I had been doing quite well for a guy in a 12' lake boat and little motor. There was every kind of watercraft out there vying for these fish. What a zoo. A friend of mine from a local dart pub saw the news clip and wanted to go with me, and we made arrangements. After launching at dawn, we made our way to the area where I had good success. My partner turned out to be quite a coffee drinker and we all know what that does to you, but I had it covered, a simple tin can will do. Within an hour I had already landed two fish - 0 for John. He had'nt had a single bite and we were rigged identically. After two more cups of coffee he announces he would like to return to the launch to take a leak. I refused. "Are we not men? We're too slow and too far out. Use the tin can." Apparently, he had an aversion to such activity. All he had to do was kneel down at the bow and take care of business. After holding his water for sometime, he could not take the pressure any longer, and moved to the bow, tin cup in hand. Meanwhile, I start spotting fish on the finder, we are near the edge of a school. My rod goes down. I set my hook, trying to maintain control of the boat, and stay out of everyone's way. John's rod goes down. He's at mid-steam so to speak. I yell at him to grab his rod. He makes an attempt with one hand, leaning backwards. About this time , we're struck by a wake of another boat causing John to lose his balance falling backwards, spilling the contents of the can on himself and his possessions, still sraying like a fire hose from all the coffee he drank. By the time he got to his rod, the fish was gone, and he was very upset because I was laughing at him so hard, he lost his first opportunity and the fact that I got another fish. Eventually, he did get a couple of fish. The moral of this story is that it's better to get pissed off than pissed on, but I guess it just wasn't his day.

Just another story to throw in...me and my buddy were fishing the lower Elwah one day, within in sight of saltwater (you know, below the big rock). We were drifting for summer run steelhead, about late June. We drifed our gear for some time and each became aware of some rather stout line that we continued to hook and real in at the end of the drift. Neither of us could catch hold of the line to pull it out of the hole, until my buddie shouted that he had it and promptly wound it arount his hand. When the line got tight he gave a significant tug to dislodge the gear on the bottom, the tug was met immediately by a stronger YANK!, whereby my friend was pulled head first into the river. Unknown to us both, a 70lb Elwah king was on the end of the line (which had obviously broken a snagger off earlier), and proceeded to head back out to sea. To make a long story short, my buddy almost drowned, and had his knuckles cut to the bone by the line wrapped around his hand. Sutures were required to close up the lacerations. Never did see the fish.........

I'll try to keep it short.

1. Swimming across Icicle Creek to untangle a fish from the pilings at the bottom of the drift hole. Fish landed. By the way, that is one aptly named river. Brrr.

2. Flyfishing in Eastern Washington with a buddy, he hits a fish, I hit a fish. On dries. Same fish. Fish definitely landed.

3. Steelhead last spring. Land a hot twelve pound hen, flopping so bad I cut off the leader and off she goes. Sit down for a smoke. Get up, re-rig, flip out line, fish on. Same fish, still has other hook in mouth. My buddy took half a roll of film of that one.

4. Fell out of boat fishing at Lake Conconully. Twice in two years.

5. Fishing Tokul Cr. when very young. Set hook, fall on ass in river. Just like story above, the fish was on the bank before I was.

6. Hooked a seal at Whatcom Creek during college. Didn't land that one.

7. Hunting funny: Southeast Washington: City slicker in new jeans and flannel with wild ass in the back of his truck. "Biggest damn mule deer I've ever seen!!" He thanks me for the praise and heads back to Bellevue.

8. My best for last: Fishing a mostly secret Zipperlip for summerruns, and fish is hooked above a mile of rapids. Fish goes across and down, around a rock. I figure I'll cross. I had already decided it was too high to cross before hooking the fish, but this was different. Get across OK, line off of rock, fish back to other side, around another rock. While crossing back, slip, ass over tea kettle. My head didn't come up for ten seconds, two small waterfalls later. My buddy said all he could see was my boots. Once under control, feet in front, I settled in for the ride until I could get out of the river. After several painful crashes into rocks, with bruises and several year old scars on my legs and back to prove it, I finally get up on a rock in the middle of the river, but still knee deep in the water. My faithful Black Lab, Guinness, no doubt on a mission to save me, or to play with me, comes roaring down the river and takes me out at the knees. My second ride was as long as the first. Finally I dog paddle to the shore after two hundred yards of all out whitewater, and my buddy arrives as I am untangling the fishing line from all around my body. (I hope it would be obvious to say I lost my hat, fanny pack, knife, etc., but did NOT let loose of my GL3!) He arrives, I unwrap the line, and there's a damn near belly up twelve pound hatchery hen floating by. Still attached to my line. I reel her in, grab her by the tail, and let out a war whoop that likely sent every animal in the woods running. Then I sat down and shook like a leaf for ten minutes.

What a rush.

Todd.

Todd, that's a great one! Other good ones on here too. It will likely make it into the REEL TRUTH fishing book being written this year. If you don't mind your last name being published also, send me an e-mail to ReelTruth1@aol.com . Thank you all for the laughs! Keep 'em coming. - Steve Hanson

I was flyfishing for steelhead on the soleduc one summer with a friend, after a while I realized I wasn't going to get a steelie. I geared down for cutthroat,(small stimulators). I caught several very nice cuts over the next hour. My partner, bent on steelhead and obviously getting grumpy turned and headed for the bank to gear down also. After about 2 steps he flipped his camel filter butt over his shoulder and "SPLASH" We never got a good look at the fish that hit his butt, but it was too big to be a cutthroat. I was too busy laughing at the look on his face to look for the fish.

Here is my most painful, funny story. While going "rock hopping" at the Westport jetty to get some seabass, I stop at the top of the jetty to make a cast. Don't know why just did. I was standing just even with the sand line at Halfmoon Bay. I cast out with my jig and just as it hits bottom, BANG fish on. Big fish on. So here I go with my buddy behind me to the water level/beach. I start leaping rock to rock. Just about five feet up I leaped before looking. Which was a BIG mistake. I had just landed on a seaweed and barnacle covered rock. Out from under me go the feet. BAM, right on my ass. But instead of stopping my fall I bounce off the rock and fall five feet to the rock below. As I try and see if I'm still alive and in one piece I still reel in a 24 inch lingcod. My friend said I was there one minute then POOF! gone. He then sees the top of my rod pop back up and heard me yell " Still Got It". Moral, ALWAYS LOOK BEFORE LEAPING. I don't rock hop much anymore. That was a cure all. 6'7" and 360lbs falling hard is not good on the back.

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Just because I look big, dumb, and ugly, doesn't mean I am. It means I can stomp you for calling me it!

So here I am living a dream. Not more than 5 yards down river from me dressed in new Orvis neoprene waders, a "River Runs Through It" hat, an Orvis vest, and a G Loomis nine foot 8 weight rod stands Cliffy Claven. I got the privelage of fishing near him for three straight days, sharing fishing yarns of his many conquests with the "Mighty Steelhead" and his exploits of 200 fish spring seasons on the Brule River in Northern Wisconsin (which is almost impossible for a mortal man). To whom did I owe, for this beautiful moment in time, where I could share fishing stories, and trivia at the same time?

Cliffy and I became real "chums" over those three days, as he explained the finer points of establishing a productive drift for the "Mighty Steelhead". He would tell me of making his presentation, feeling the methodical tapping of lead on gravel, and at the opportune moment, "striking" the fish. I was saddened after three days to not see Cliffy put this technique to use, after my "other" friend and I had hooked over 60 fish a day each. Could Cliffy be jinxed, on this river? Surely he couldn't be knitting yet another yarn, and slightly overstating his fishing prowess.

Needless to say, late in the 3rd day, the blessed moment occured, and Cliffy "struck' a fish. The hook came out of the fish under much pressure, sending the tip of his Loomis fly rod in to a tree limb, thus shortening it by a foot. He now had a three piece 8 foot, 1 foot, 8 weight rod. He was emotionally horrified. He headed up the bank, shattered rod and dreams in hand, never to be seen again.

It was at this time that my "other" friend that I have known since 10th grade decided to re-live that fateful moment that Cliffy had just experienced. So Chuck (my other friend)says " I stealthily cast my line to the holding area of the pool, tightened my line for the rythmic tap of lead on gravel, detected a hesitation in my drift, and "struck the fish". This doesn't seem life threatining does it? It was.

Let me tell you that at this very moment, I had lost my rig, and was snelling up another hook with yarn. I had a 1 inch piece of yarn held loosely in my left hand, and the hook in my right hand. At the end of Chucks story, I inhaled so violently, to keep from losing it, and sucked the 1 inch piece of yarn directly in to my lungs. I was instantly vapor locked, and choking. I could not get a single bit of air in to my system. The river was running fairly hard, and was up to my waist in water. I didn't want to drop my rod, so I continued to stumble around in the middle of the river. I was ckoing big time. I was getting dizzy and light headed, and thought it was all over. Chuck saw the yarn dissapear in to my lungs, and was laughing too hard to be of any help (paybacks are hell). All of a sudden, I got a shot of air, and puked up some flem, and mixed in it was 6 inch long pieces of golden nugget glo bug yarn. I continued to dry heave and blow up 6 inch chunks of yarn for almost 10 minutes. There was a flem and yarn slick that covered the next three guys directly down river from me. Repulsed, they started to back out of the river. Now, I want to know how a piece of yarn goes in your lungs, at 1 inch in length, and comes out 6 times longer a few mintues later. I figure I hurled up about three bags of Glo bug Yarn by the time I was done. Just enough to make a size XL Golden Nugget cardigan without buttons.

I dry heaved so long, that Chuck and the guy next to me were bent over blowing chow in the river, and another friend of ours ran across the bridge, and back down in to the river thinking he was going to have to give me CPR. I know it's hard to believe, but I almost got killed by a 1 inch long piece of glo bug yarn. When Andy Matthews says its "fluffy" he ain't just a shittin ya, because you can't breath with it in your lungs. Cliffy, if you are out there, I miss you.

God I'm low on the list. I could probablly regurgitate a Penthouse Forum letter and no one would notice this far down!
Anyhow, I was fishing Cliff Lake off SW Montana's Madison River several years ago. Cliff Lake is legendary for its big browns and rainbows (held the Montana State record with a 28lb. brown for a few years) so my partner and I were jacked for the possibility of getting a tow by one of these brutes in our tubes. However, Cliff is a deep, deep lake and we we using everything we had to get our flies down 30-40 feet into the "zone". With anticipation still riding high, we kicked past an anchored jon boat grossly overloaded with several cowboy hatted adults, 5-6 rugrats, a couple of mangy dogs, numerous coolers, a veritable briar patch of spinning rods AND a stringer of fish that looked like something out of my granpa's photo album of salmon fishing off Point No Point in the 1920's!
Trying to sound nonchalant, while also drooling a tad, I cast out the proverbial "How's fishing?" to the mob. Actually I was ready to ply these local worm dunkers for all the information I could wring out of them...depth, bait etc... Being an "purist,snobby,flyfisheran" I wasn't going to allow those worm chuckers the satifaction of knowing that their Powerbait encrusted snelled baithooks from the local True Value were kicking the crap out of my Orvis, Sage, Scientific Angler blah, blah, blah, setup towing the perfectly tied hellioandropomorphic sculpin pattern indiginous to that environment. How's that for fly lingo?
Anyhow, I was rewarded with a reply of "Great fishing! Daddy hold up my fish!" from a beaming little girl about age 8. Well, "Daddy" with true friendly Montana hospitality, smiled and pulled up an obnioxios vine of trout none under 18-inches and one (which I supposed was the happy little girl's catch) looked to push the 30-inch mark. It was truly a thing of beauty and Kodak moment. Except that right when Grandma was snapping a picture of little Debbie and her monster, one of the overloaded chain links next to Daddy's hand decided that the steel in the 99-cent K-Mart stringer need to pop loose to relieve 20-some pounds of rainbow trout induced stress on it.
When those fish fell in the water, a numb silence fell across the boat for a second and then with looks of horror, pure pandemoneum busted loose. Dogs and cowboy hats flew in the water, Granpma and Daddy were lunging for the prized stringer, the allready overloaded boat was wildly rocking and shipping ungodly amounts of water, Mom and Grandma were screaming at everyone to sit down, Grandma's camera went swimming....PURE HELL for 10-seconds. It all subsided and silence prevailed in the boat until the Dad metioned to the now thoughouly devestated little girl that "It's all right honey, well catch another fish."
"NO ITS NOT!" she wailed back. "WE'LL NEVER CATCH ANOTHER ONE AND IT'S ALL HIS FAULT!!!" Of course she was pointing directly at me. I was trying my best to shrink into some small unnoticable aquatic bug that could travel great distances and speeds over water in short amounts of time. And, of course in my tube I couldn't get too far too quick so I had the unpleasant task of watching the little girl bore holes in my float tube with her angry eyes while her family retrieved their pooches and bailed the old jon boat.
As they pulled anchor and fired up their old outboard to head back to what would probablly be a somber camp, my partner was laughing his head off. I felt horrible for inadvertantly ruining a little girls fishing day (probablly scarring her for life and turning her into a man-hating, float-tube despising, angry assasin of anything toting a damned flyrod woman).
Anyhow, there is something to be said for karma since I spent 6 more days in the fly-fishing paradise of Montana and could only hook a whitefish or two. The fish gods had their revenge. Every drop of water I touched from the Clark Fork, to the Henry's Fork, to Clark Canyon Resevior went utterly dead (for everyone) upon my arrival. I finally flew out of Bozeman to return my job in disgust. Of course two hours after I was airborn, my friend was driving (he stayed another week)a favorite stretch of the Missouri and saw with a smile that rods were bent for a mile stretch of river. He claims he was never so happy to see a fishing buddy go home. I can't blame him. Since that day whenever the Queets, Naselle, Dry Falls, or any other water fails to give up a thing, he blames me and the Cliff Lake debaucle.
My partner that day never fails to revive that story when he puts on a slide show for a fly club or hosts his booth at a sportsman's expo. I still feel like an ass about it.

[This message has been edited by Chuckn'Duck (edited 04-13-2000).]

Hawk & Chuck- Thanks. I'm still lol. Love it. Appreciate you posting these great stories to my thread here. Talent on this board!! (BTW- C&D, 6 slow days & you didn't run up the Madison or down to the Henry's Fork?).- We are having a Funny Fishing Story contest on our Discussion Board at www.ifish.net . The prize is a guided King fishing trip for 2. I don't suppose that much interests you guys from far away, but the stories would be more than welcomed by our readers. I plan on using many of the stories from here & our DB for my "The REEL TRUTH" book story section, to follow the tech intensive sections on salmon/steelhead fishing in the NW. I plan on crediting nickname/monikers unless I recieve an e-mail with your name (which I will verify to your story) to ReelTruth1@aol.com . And keep the stories coming! I've seen thread subjects go above 50 posts on here, and it puts the thread back up near the top so people will know there's a new story. Thanks again guys, Steve Hanson

[This message has been edited by Reel Truth (edited 04-13-2000).]

[This message has been edited by Reel Truth (edited 04-13-2000).]